


Loyalty and Cunning; An Unlikely Alliance

by Eltuine



Series: Loyalty and Cunning [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eltuine/pseuds/Eltuine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> To be completely honest, John didn't really notice Sherlock Holmes during the younger boy's first two years at Hogwarts. After all, he was already in third year when the skinny, dark-haired kid had shown up along with all of the other first years. </i>
</p><p>When the unusual loner boy from Slytherin starts showing up outside the Hufflepuff common room, it kicks off a friendship that neither participant could have seen coming.</p><p>A lighthearted little series of vignettes of John and Sherlock's first year of friendship, before the start of the Second Wizarding War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a Potterlock story! I've already finished writing it, so updates will be regular until the whole thing's posted.
> 
> Sherlock and John's age difference has been mucked about with a bit for the purposes of this story. I'm operating under the assumption that, when John and Sherlock first meet at St Bart's in the show, John is in his mid-thirties. This would mean he would have started at Hogwarts in the 80s, so I've made it 1986 for his first year. Sherlock starts in 1988. I've made a whole timeline of who overlaps when. I'll post it in a separate part of this series.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys! This is unbeta'd and unbritpicked, so I apologise for any mistakes. Obviously none of the characters are mine, and I thank JK, ACD, Moffat, and Gatiss for such wonderful worlds and creations. I hope you enjoy!

To be completely honest, John didn't really notice Sherlock Holmes during the younger boy's first two years at Hogwarts. After all, he was already in third year when the skinny, dark-haired kid had shown up along with all of the other first years, and John and his mates had been far more interested in welcoming new faces to the Hufflepuff table. The only point when he'd even taken a closer look at the boy had been when the Sorting Hat, plonked down over verdigris eyes, had taken an inordinately long amount of time to decide upon a house.

When John had been sorted, it had been mercifully quick. He remembered it clearly, being so awe-struck by everything, from the self-propelling boats to the ceiling of the Great Hall, and the Sorting Ceremony had stuck out in particular.

He'd been one of the last to be called up, being a Watson. The girl in front of him – Verdant, Caliope – had barely been touched by the hat before it had shouted “Ravenclaw!”, causing the blue-bedecked table to erupt into cheering, and then he was up.

“Watson, John.” the deputy headmistress had read out, and John had hurried forward. He had no real idea what the houses were like, his only knowledge having come from a brief skim through “Hogwarts, A History” on the train and the unusual poem recited by the hat at the beginning of the ceremony, so he had no preconceived notions of where he might belong, beyond being fairly certain that he was not smart enough for Ravenclaw. Determined not to show his nerves, he sat on the stool, and was quickly enveloped in darkness when the hat dropped over his eyes.

“Hmm, hello,” the hat's low voice said in his ear (he was still getting over the concept of talking clothing), “What have we here? Quite the personality, Mr. Watson. Rather smart, though I don't see you in Ravenclaw. Wouldn't do to put you in Slytherin, either. Now... hmm... Brave, definitely brave. And kind. Not afraid of a bit of hard work, either. Chivalrous, and after a bit of adventure, eh? You'd fit in in Gryffindor, that's for certain, but that patience, heart and loyalty...” John was becoming increasingly concerned about how long all of this was going to take. There had been some students who'd sat for a fair while before a house was called out, but he'd hoped not to be among their ranks. It was bad enough, waiting and being one of the last four students called. Thankfully, a sudden change in the hat's tone broke his musing. “Yes, yes I think so. Best put you in HUFFLEPUFF!” That last word was bellowed out for the whole hall to hear, and John found himself being welcomed to a cheering and smiling table full of students wearing yellow and black ties.

He was drawn out of his reverie by a whispering starting up around the table. “Sure is taking a long time, isn't he?” Gabriel Truman, one of John's fellow third years, asked. “His brother was in Slytherin, y'know. Graduated last year.”

“Poor kid,” Nymphadora, the cheeky fifth year girl whose hair was never the same colour twice, added, “All knees and elbows, stuck on that stool for almost five minutes now! Wonder if he'll be the first hatstall since McGonagall. Bet he's terrified.” John nodded, and kept watching. Another few seconds ticked by, and finally the hat shouted out “SLYTHERIN!” And that was that. The skinny boy pulled the hat from his head, expression unreadable, and made his way over to Slytherin's table, and John promptly forgot about him. (Later, when John asks Sherlock about why he'd taken so long to be sorted, the younger boy will explain that he had been deducing the hat's choice, and had ended up having a bit of a debate with it, and the hat had taken a very long time to suss out whether he should be in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. “Why didn't you end up in Ravenclaw?” John will ask, and Sherlock will shrug and say “I suppose because I'd much rather be blowing things up and sneaking about to learn things rather than sitting around with a bunch of boring people in the library.”)

During the first few months of John's fifth year, however, he suddenly found that Sherlock kept popping up near the Hufflepuff common room entrance, just hanging about and scribbling intently into a black notebook.

“He's alone an awful lot,” Gabe remarked while the two boys sat doing Potions essays together, “I don't think the other Slytherins like him much.”

“Maybe he's hoping to find a friend?” a first year – Johanna – asked, “I mean, Hufflepuff'd be the place to look, right? Aren't we supposed to be... friendly?” John smiled at her indulgently. Oh, first years. They were so _cute_ sometimes.

“We are, indeed. Maybe I'll go talk to him next time he's lurking about. See what he wants.”

The opportunity presented itself two days later, when John was returning from Quidditch practice early, nursing a sprained wrist after a particularly emphatic swing at a bludger, and there was Holmes, sitting not ten feet from the barrel that served as entrance to the Hufflepuff common room.

“Hello,” John said, deciding that a simple greeting would be best. The younger boy looked startled to have been spoken to at all.

“...Hello,” he sounded suspicious.

“Everything alright?” John asked.

“Fine.” It seemed this would be a little more difficult than he'd first anticipated. John searched around for a topic of conversation, and caught his eye on the book in Sherlock's hands.

“What are you writing about?” The suspicious look on Holmes's face intensified.

“What does it matter to you?” John tried not to chuckle. He sounded like a petulant child.

“I'm just trying to start a conversation, silly.”

“Why?”

“Well, you seem to be hanging around here a lot, you obviously know this is the entrance to the Hufflepuff rooms, so I was wondering what you were doing here.” The suspicious look abated somewhat, but Sherlock still looked wary.

“I'm conducting a study.” That sounded interesting.

“Oh! What about? House passwords? Ours isn't terribly complex.” A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards.

“House members, actually. Commonalities, backgrounds, that sort of thing.” John furrowed his brow.

“Isn't that sort of common knowledge? Y'know, Gryffindors, brave; Hufflepuffs, loyal; Ravenclaws, smart; Slytherins, er...” He trailed off, trying to think of a Slytherin trait that wouldn't sound insulting, “Cunning?” He finished lamely. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, _obviously._ I don't mean _those_ kinds of traits. I mean things like number of siblings, parents' jobs, muggle-born or pureblood, that sort of thing.” John hadn't considered this before.

“Huh. That actually sounds interesting. You can tell that kind of stuff just by watching people?” Sherlock nodded. “What can you tell about me?”

With a deep breath, the younger boy launched into it, "You're muggleborn, not of very high economic standing. You have one sibling, an older brother, a muggle, rather put-out that you're here and he's not. You like muggle sport, so you went for the Quidditch team once you were in second year. Your father is an alcoholic, and your mother is the main breadwinner for your household. You're self sacrificing, and fairly brave, and you just hurt your wrist at Quidditch practice." John's eyebrows rose.

"Wow! That was brilliant!" It was Sherlock's turn to look surprised.

"Really? That's... not what most people say."

"What do they usually say?" John asked.

"Piss off," Sherlock answered with a wry little smile, "Sometimes they skip right to the jinxes." John frowned at that. Poor kid was obviously not very good at socialising.

"Well, I'm not going to give you jelly-legs or anything, don't worry. Do you... want to come in? You can tell me how you figured all that out, and I can get out of my Quidditch robes." Sherlock looked very startled, and slightly panicked, before looking curiously over at the entrance to the common room.

"Won't your fellow Hufflepuffs mind having a Slytherin in their common room?" John waved his hand, already turning to the barrel that served as door.

"Nah! They won't mind. Just, maybe keep your observations to yourself, unless they ask." He pulled out his wand and tapped out the password, causing the large round door to swing open. "Come on, and sorry if I crawl a little slowly. You were right, I did hurt myself in practice today." With that, he led the younger boy through the short passageway and into the Hufflepuff basement. 

There were several students collected in the common room, chatting or working on assignments, and a few turned to smile quizzically at John's entrance.

"Grab a seat. I'll change quick and be right out," he told Sherlock, before hurrying off to change into his everyday robes. When he came back, Sherlock was kneeling up on a chair, staring intently at a small planter containing an immature flitterbloom.

"Looks almost exactly like Devil's Snare, eh?" John asked, indicating toward the plant.

"Almost," Sherlock answered, "Easy to tell the difference if you know what to look for, though. Your common room is... inundated with plant life." John chuckled.

"Yeah, it's Professor Sprout's doing, she's head of Hufflepuff House. There's a reason why so many of us do so well in Herbology." He winked, causing Sherlock to blink in confusion. John smiled, and plopped himself down into a cheery yellow armchair next to the Slytherin boy. "So, how'd you figure out all that stuff about me?"

"It's not terribly difficult, if you know what to look for. Your shoes, for instance, tell me a great deal. They're rather worn and scuffed, and have grass stains typical of a muggle football pitch, so you're interested in sport. That they're too small - evident by the slight awkwardness to your gait - tells me that your family is not terribly well-off, and can't afford new footwear for you every year. 

"I know you have a sibling because of your bookbag. It's had a previous owner, who wrote 'Harry Watson' on the edge of the flap. The bag is too new to have belonged to an older family member, and while cousin is possible, sibling is statistically more likely. He's not at Hogwarts, though, or you would spend at least some time in his presence, and you're only ever seen with your friends and housemates. That he'd be jealous of your being here and his not is a given. What muggle wouldn't? 

"As for your mother being the breadwinner, I overheard you speaking to Truman about your father losing his job last month - that's not cheating, it's observing - and while there may be several reasons for this, the distain evident in your tone when mentioning it leads me to believe that it was for reasons that you do not find acceptable. Addiction is the most likely culprit, and alcoholism the most common for someone of your socioeconomic status. 

"Your wand wood told me about your personality - cypress, most often matched with brave, self sacrificing types. Not always an accurate indicator, but it's still a fairly safe bet.

"Your injury during Quidditch practice was the easiest part. You were holding your wrist gingerly and wearing your Quidditch robes when you got here."

John knew that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't help it. "Holy crap!" he exclaimed, "That was amazing! You're some kind of genius!" Sherlock's cheeks flushed, and he beamed under the praise.

"Did I get anything wrong?" He asked.

"I do like football, and that was why I joined the Quidditch team. My family's not terribly well-off, my mum is the only person who's working right now, and yeah, my dad's a lazy drunk. Harry was furious when I left to come here - hasn't really forgiven me yet - and I sprained my wrist today at practice." Sherlock tightened a fist in a gesture of victory, before John added, "But Harry's short for Harriet."

"Sister!" Sherlock bit as though it were a swear, "Harry's your _sister!_ Of course! There's always something." John laughed.

"Still pretty unbelievable, though. How about the rest of your study? Have you found any commonalities between house members beyond personalities?" With that, Sherlock launched into his statistics and analyses, including the rarity of muggle-borns in Slytherin and a complaint about the Weasleys throwing off his sibling statistics for Gryffindor. John spent the afternoon listening and laughing at some of the more unusual facts, occasionally commenting with his own knowledge of the other members of Hufflepuff house. Before either boy knew it, it was almost time for dinner.

"Well, ah... thank you" Sherlock said stiffly, "For inviting me in. And... not giving me bat bogeys or something." John smiled brightly.

"Thanks for sharing your observations with me! I'll see you 'round, Sherlock." With that, the younger boy headed off towards the dungeons, and John went to go find Gabe to set up an after-dinner study session to work on their latest transfiguration homework.


	2. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It didn't take long before it was simply accepted that, three out of every five nights, there would be a short, skinny kid with curly black hair and a green-and-silver striped tie amidst the sea of yellow and black._
> 
> The friendship between John and Sherlock flourishes. Not everyone is pleased.

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock kept hanging around near the kitchens, and John kept inviting him into the common room. Some of the other Hufflepuffs had asked about the presence of a Slytherin in their midst, but had accepted him easily enough once John had explained that Sherlock was his friend. After the first few times, Sherlock even stopped looking quite so shocked at this pronouncement. It didn't take long before it was simply accepted that, three out of every five nights, there would be a short, skinny kid with curly black hair and a green-and-silver striped tie amidst the sea of yellow and black.

"God, this is _impossible!_ " John groaned one afternoon, after failing for the fourth time to change the beetle he was practising charms on from black to orange. "I'm never going to figure this out! I'm going to fail my Charms O.W.L. and drop out of Hogwarts and end up living under a bridge with a family of smelly _trolls!_ " Sherlock snorted from his perch on a nearby stump. They had gone outside to take advantage of a rare sunny day in mid-October.

"Don't be absurd," the third-year said, "trolls don't live in family units. Besides, you're just trying too hard. It's stressing you out, and making you lose concentration."

"Oh, shut up," John snapped, "What do you know? You haven't even got to _think_ about O.W.L.s for another two years, and you'll probably ace them all." Sherlock snickered again, and came over to where John was prodding the poor, terrified beetle with the tip of his wand.

"Relax!" He said, "And try _picturing_ it. What colour is the beetle?"

"Black." The "duh" was implied. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, in your mental picture! What colour is the beetle?"

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. "Orange with purple stripes," he said sarcastically.

"Oh? That's how you're picturing it?" Sherlock was unimpressed. Just to be contrary, John did just that.

"Yup. Disco beetle."

Sherlock sighed. "Alright, have another go. Keep that 'disco beetle' sharp in your mind." John herded the beetle back from its escape attempt, and pictured the most ridiculous looking insect he could.

" _Colovaria!_ " He pointed his wand at the bug, and there was a flash of red light, and-

"Merlin's _beard_ , what _is_ that?" A sneering voice came from over John's shoulder. Both boys quickly took their eyes off of the decidedly unique beetle, and turned to look at Lucian Bole, a Slytherin in Sherlock's year, and Allen Farling, another Slytherin a year ahead of the first.

" _Nebria brevicollos_ , a common ground beetle," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, "Albeit an unusually coloured specimen." John grinned.

"Not the beetle, _that_." Allen pointed at John, who bristled.

"Excuse me?"

"Ooh, it speaks!" Allen exclaimed with mock surprise. "You've taught your pet to speak, Sherlock? How clever. Best be sure he doesn't get any ideas, though. Wouldn't want him to start thinking he's your _equal_ , would you?" Sherlock's hands balled into fists by his sides, but he remained otherwise stationary.

"I suggest you take that back, Farling." His voice was as threatening as any thirteen year old's could be.

"Or what? You'll _deduce_ me?" Lucian sniggered while Allen let out a nasty guffaw of laughter, "I'm shaking."

"Maybe I'll do something a little more permanent," Sherlock threatened, reaching for his wand. John stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Don't, Sherlock. It's not worth it." Lucian piped up at this.

"You take orders from some mudblood Hufflepuff now? As if your freakishness weren't bad enough already. You're a disgrace to Slytherin. You should go turn in your tie and join the rest of the pathetic little tossers in their badger-hole." John was too thrown by the slur to respond, but Sherlock, who had gone white with fury, drew himself up to his full height (all of 5 foot 2) and glared down the two boys.

"I suggest you move on, or I'll inform professor Snape of exactly who has been stealing the bottles of Elixer to Induce Euphoria and then using it to get high." 

Farling sneered, but grabbed ahold of Bole's sleeve. "Let's leave the muggle-lover to his dog." As a parting shot, he crunched the orange-and-purple beetle under the toe of his shoe.

"Ooh, I should poison their pumpkin juice," John grumbled once they were out of earshot, looking down at the smear that was all that remained of his first successful colour-change charm. Sherlock remained silent. "Sherlock? You okay? It's no big deal, they're just a couple of idiots."

Sherlock's voice was very quiet when he finally spoke. "They shouldn't talk to you like that." 

John reached out and put a calming hand on his friend's shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about it. I got the colour-change charm! Maybe you can help me with my potionwork, too." They returned their attention to schoolwork, but Sherlock was much more  
subdued for the rest of the afternoon.


	3. Arresto Momentum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The match started out pretty well, with several goals on either side and no sign of the snitch yet, but the weather was quickly getting worse. By the time the second half started, snow was flying almost parallel to the ground, and John was having trouble even_ finding _the bludgers, let alone hitting them._
> 
> It's Hufflepuff's first Quidditch match of the year. Things don't go as well as John might have hoped.

The day of the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw Quidditch match was cold and blustery, and John made sure to put on an extra-warm jumper under his robes before heading out to the pitch. Albert Klein, team captain, gave his usual "teamwork and fun" speech, and then they filed out onto the field. They were probably going to lose. Hufflepuff wasn't exactly known for its excellence in sport, but it was fun anyway, and John loved the exhilaration of playing a match in front of the whole school. Besides, while Hufflepuff may not have been nearly as competitive as Gryffindor or Slytherin (honestly, those two were such _children_ sometimes), they did have a longstanding tradition of Quidditch rivalry with Ravenclaw, and John was going to do his very best to win.

He kicked off on his broom (a Cleansweep provided by the school for students who couldn't afford their own) and rolled his left wrist several times, testing the weight of the bat. He was completely healed from his minor sprain in September, and was practically itching to hit some bludgers.

The match started out pretty well, with several goals on either side and no sign of the snitch yet, but the weather was quickly getting worse. By the time the second half started, snow was flying almost parallel to the ground, and John was having trouble even _finding_ the bludgers, let alone hitting them. 

"Watson!" Called Andrea Masterson, one of their chasers. She was pointing, and he whipped his head around to see a bludger zooming along towards Klein. He leaned forward on his broom and raced ahead, arriving just in time to knock the bludger with a "crack", sending it in the direction of a Ravenclaw chaser instead.

"Thanks Watson!" Klein called before flying away to catch a quaffle. John tried to call out a response, but his words were torn away in the wind. He was pelting towards another bludger when a flicker of gold caught his eye - the snitch! He gestured frantically up at their seeker - Herbert - trying to get his attention without alerting Ravenclaw. The slight boy was circling around higher up, and obviously hadn't seen what John had. 

Unfortunately, any message he might have relayed was destined to fail, as there was a sudden powerful blow to the back of his head, and the world went spinning. He lost grip on his broom. An audible gasp went up from the crowded stands, and then John was falling. His last thought before unconsciousness was "oh, so that's what a bludger to the back of the skull feels like".

When he regained consciousness, he was lying on his back on cold grass, several worried faces peering down at him.

"Did we win?" He asked, disoriented. Madam Hooch smiled apologetically at him.

"Afraid not. Ravenclaw caught the snitch while the majority of your team came rushing down here to check on you." John groaned, and lay back, closing his eyes. A chorus of voices all inquired about his well-being, but were quickly silence by Madam Hooch, who took charge of asking the questions. "How do you feel, John? Anything hurt?"

"Just my head," John answered, "I don't think any thing's broken." 

"Of course it isn't," came an arrogant voice from behind the crowd of faces, "I got him with an _Arresto Momentum_ charm." Sherlock pushed his way through to look at John.

"Good job, Holmes," Hooch acknowledged, "Fifteen points to Slytherin. I'll be sure to tell Professor Flitwick of your excellent application of his course materials." She turned her attention back to John, who was gingerly sitting up, very aware of a dull throbbing spreading from the back of his skull. He reached a hand around and felt a very tender lump starting to form. "You should go see Madam Pomfrey, ensure you haven't a concussion. Klein, if you could-"

"I'll take him," Sherlock interjected. Seven pairs of eyes turned to look at him in surprise. John just smiled.

"Sure, c'mon, help me up, my arse is getting frozen." Klein and Masterson helped him to his feet, and Sherlock put a steadying arm around his shoulders. The entire yellow section of the stands burst into applause at his regaining his feet, and John felt his ears turn red with embarrassment. He gave a little wave to show that he was alright, and then let Sherlock drag him away from the pitch.

"I will never understand the appeal of Quidditch," Sherlock drawled as they walked back to the castle, "A bunch of grunting barbarians all throwing things around and trying to hit one another with balls. Ridiculous." 

John giggled. "Hey! One of those grunting barbarians right here, mate!" 

Sherlock huffed. "It's stupid to go risking your life for a mindless game with no real value." John just laughed.

"Aw, I didn't know you _cared_ Sherlock!" he said, fluttering his eyelashes exaggeratedly and giving his friend a lighthearted punch on the arm. The younger boy scowled, and remained silent for the rest of the walk to the hospital wing.

In the end, John turned out to have a mild concussion, and was informed that he should simply take it easy and try to avoid future blows to the head. Sherlock received a bonus to his charms grade once Flitwick learned what had happened, and if the members of Hufflepuff were a little friendlier towards the Slytherin boy than previously, no one said anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm off to the cottage for 2 days tomorrow (despite my staunch hatred of the outdoors, I end up getting dragged along because "family" and "my birthday"). I'll add another chapter tonight, and, in theory, I might have time to add a chapter before I leave tomorrow. In practice, however, Chapter 5 might not be posted until Saturday. Sorry in advance!


	4. Unpleasant Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _With Christmas came the arrival of snow, and a sort of playful restlessness in the students._
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock and John discuss their Christmas plans.

With Christmas came the arrival of snow, and a sort of playful restlessness in the students. John and Sherlock were seated back to back in an unused classroom, each working on his own end-of-term paper for a different class. 

"You're staying at the castle for the holiday," Sherlock spoke suddenly. It wasn't a question. John sighed.

"Yep. I am." He was trying to concentrate on his essay.

Sherlock didn't drop it. "Aren't you going to ask how I know?"

"Does it matter? You can probably tell because of my left earlobe or something equally absurd and brilliant." Sherlock huffed, but John could practically _hear_ the pleased little smile at being called "brilliant".

"Actually, it's because I saw your name on the list of students staying when I signed up." 

John had to chuckle at that. "I think that's cheating. Anyway, why are you staying? I mean, _I_ am because otherwise it would just be another uncomfortable family holiday where dad drinks too much, mum cries, and Harry refuses to speak to me, but doesn't your family have some massive mansion with three dozen house-elves and more Christmas trees than you can count on two hands?" Sherlock's shoulders went tense against John's. "Hey, no, sorry," John tried to turn and face his friend, "That wasn't very nice of me. It's great that you're staying! We can get up to all sorts of trouble with most of the castle empty." Sherlock let out an angry little sigh.

"My family isn't terribly pleasant either, you know. My brother is an insufferable know-it-all who works for the Ministry and only ever stops talking to stuff his face full of cake, and my mother worries about _everything_. The entire holiday would be one long lecture about my behaviour and how I need to 'straighten up and fly right' or some such nonsense. That is, when I'm not trying to avoid my horrible cousins and dreadful aunts and uncles." 

John remained silent. This was the most that Sherlock had ever told him about his home life. After several moments, he asked quietly, "What about your dad?" Sherlock frowned, and wouldn't meet John's eye. "Don't worry about it, you don't have to tell me if you-" Sherlock cut him off.

"My father is dead." John flinched.

"Shit, Sherlock. I had no idea. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked, I'm really sorry."

"Don't be," Sherlock said flatly, "He was killed during the war." John knew enough about the war from History of Magic and gossip around the school to know that it was probably a painful subject.

"Was it... was it Death Eaters?" He practically whispered, as though afraid that speaking the question too loudly would make it worse. Sherlock met his eyes with a blank expression.

"No. Aurors." John's eyebrows rose.

"What? But why would Aurors- oh! _Oh._ " He had no idea what to say to that. His best friend's father had been a Death Eater, and would probably have tried to kill John just for what his parents were.

"Yes, so you can imagine that any gatherings of more than my immediate family are quite awkward and rife with undertones of mistrust and tension,” Sherlock added. John had no appropriate response. Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to understand his friend's discomfort, and spoke again. "Besides, we only have two House Elves, nowhere near three dozen. And Christmas trees are only fun for setting on fire or pushing over onto unsuspecting brothers." John laughed, and with that, things were relatively back to normal, and each boy turned his attention back to his respective essay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, please don't kill me for making Sherlock's dad a Death Eater! *ducks to avoid hurled mugs and computer mice* I think it fits! It also fits with what I have planned for later installments in this series...
> 
> Bit of a short chapter here! But I've already posted one today, so this is more of a sort of bonus. Up next: Christmas!


	5. Christmas at Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John awoke on Christmas morning to a pair of blue-green eyes staring intently at him from all of six inches away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Stupid amounts of fluff ahead. You have been warned.
> 
> Chapters 5 and 6 were really short by themselves, so now it's just chapter 5. Enjoy!

John loved Christmas at Hogwarts. The castle was mostly emptied of students, but those who remained were treated to enough festivity and merriment to last the whole year. Decorations appeared overnight, and the entirety of the Great Hall smelled of nutmeg and peppermint. The four house tables were done away with in favour of a single long one down the centre of the room, and dinner on Christmas Eve was so extravagant that John felt faintly ill by the time he’d finished dessert. Wizard Crackers were another highlight.

“C’mon Sherlock!” John cajoled, “They’re fun! Grab an end!” Though he rolled his eyes dramatically, the Slytherin boy took ahold of the proffered Christmas Cracker. There was a deafening “kaboom”, a puff of blue smoke, and John quickly inspected what he’d gotten. The hat was ridiculous - some sort of pink and blue monstrosity that consisted of a pile of spiraling rings and a foot-wide brim - but the prize was excellent. Once he actually figured out what it was, that is.

“Uh... It’s a...” John trailed off, poking confusedly at the blue replica of a gallows. 

“Oh!” Sherlock said, sounding pleased, “Hangman! Don’t muggles have hangman?” 

“Well, yeah,” John explained, “But you just play with a pen and paper. How does this thing work?”

The two boys spent the rest of the evening taking turns coming up with phrases and watching the miniature hangman get strung up with each incorrect guess. Sherlock guessed John’s phrases within the first thirty seconds every game but one.

“That is not a thing!” Sherlock exclaimed, as the little man dropped through the trapdoor, his neck making a disconcertingly realistic little “crack”.

“Hey, not my fault you’ve never heard of Monty Python,” John said, smiling. It was about time he won, after being soundly defeated seven times in a row. 

“What, is he some sort of famous muggle?” John couldn't hold back his laughter. “Who is he? Did he fight in a muggle war? Is he some sort of politician?” John was now holding his sides, completely unable to breathe.

“Oh god! Stop! You’re killing me!” he panted, leaning forwards against the table. Sherlock was not so amused.

“Stop giggling like an idiot and _explain!”_

“Not a person,” John managed, wiping his eyes, “They're a comedy troupe, they made movies and had a show on telly.” Sherlock frowned.

“How on earth was I supposed to know that? I’ve never watch ‘telly’ or movies! We don't have televisions in wizarding houses.”

“Oh, quit pouting,” John chided good-naturedly, “You’ve won the other seven rounds. I’ll have to show you some of their stuff sometime. It’s really funny.” They were both distracted by another cannon boom and sudden tittering from the professors’ end of the table. Everyone turned to see Hagrid holding half a cracker in one hand, and a full-on princess tiara, complete with sparkly pink gemstones, in the other. Dumbledore started to chuckle, and it wasn’t long before the entire table was laughing. Even Sherlock joined in, and John was fairly certain that he’d seen Snape trying to hide a smile behind his hand. All in all, it was probably the best Christmas Eve that John had ever had.

~x~

John awoke on Christmas morning to a pair of blue-green eyes staring intently at him from all of six inches away. He jumped.

“JESUS that’s creepy, Sherlock!” he shouted, causing Chauncey Fletcher (the only other fifth year Hufflepuff boy to have stayed over the break) to start and roll over before returning to snoring. Sherlock simply sat up and peered back at John.

“You took too long to get up. I was trying to decide how best to wake you, but you did it yourself before I could figure out the optimal method.” 

John sighed. “Why the rush?”

“CHRISTMAS, John! Honestly! Are you always this dense first thing in the morning?” John rolled his eyes, and pulled himself up to a seated position. There was a small pile of presents at the foot of his bed.

“Crikey. Those all mine?” 

Sherlock shook his head, his cheeks tinted pink. “No, I brought my presents here,” he explained, “I thought that we could... do Christmas morning together. If you like. Whatever you prefer.” John smiled at his friend’s awkwardness. Genius though he may be, Sherlock was rather hopeless when it came to social interaction. 

“Sounds good! Pass me one of mine, will you?” He was handed a soft, lumpy package. “This’ll be from my mum.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Do you want me to tell you what it is?” 

John chuckled. “No, I already know. It’s sort of a running joke that she gets me the same thing every year.” Sure enough, when he tore the brightly coloured paper, it contained a package of six pairs of white gym socks. John laughed. Sherlock looked puzzled. “It’s a long story involving a younger me, a very muddy field, and a missing pair of shoes.” This did little to clear things up, but Sherlock just shrugged and reached for one of his own packages.

“It’s from Mycroft,” he said with a sneer, “Two books, at least one of which is sure to be completely obnoxious.” He tore into the paper and, sure enough, there were two books inside. One was titled _Extraordinary Trials in History,_ and Sherlock looked at it with at least a passing interest. The other was called _Preferred Preface for Perfect Prefects._ John snorted when he read the title.

“I think you’d sooner be a vampire than a prefect,” he told Sherlock, who grimaced and held the book away in two fingers as though it were something particularly foul, and possibly contagious. 

“This is Mycroft’s idea of a subtle hint. He was a prefect when he was here, and then Head Boy. He seems determined to turn me into a younger clone of himself, though lord knows I haven’t the stomach to consume _nearly_ enough pastries to reach his gargantuan proportions...” 

John grabbed another parcel and read the tag. “My real gift from my mum and dad,” he explained to Sherlock.

“I know. Would you like me to tell me what it is?” 

John rolled his eyes. “No. Deduce your own presents. I _like_ the surprises.” He tore it open, and smiled when he uncovered a box with new trainers. “Finally! God, I was starting to worry I’d have to cut holes in the toes of my old ones so my feet didn’t start to curl under. Even matches the other gift. Nice one, mum. Ok, your turn again.” 

Sherlock proceeded to open a new set of crystal phials from his mother “predictable!”, a mound of candy from his cousins “boring!”, and something called a “Probity Probe” from one of his uncles, which he simply scoffed at and tossed onto the pile of discarded wrapping. 

John opened a VHS tape of _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ from Harry (by which Sherlock was _fascinated,_ and then abruptly apologetic when he unraveled the ribbon and had to use a repairo spell to fix it), a box of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous, Wet-Start, No Heat Fireworks from Gabe, and a muggle book about magic tricks along with a special card deck from his grandmother (who didn’t really “get” the whole wizard thing) that had both boys practically howling with laughter. This earned him a pillow being thrown at him by Chauncey. 

Once they’d both calmed their fits of giggles, John reached under his bed and pulled out his present for Sherlock. He’d done a truly awful job of wrapping it, but hoped that would just serve to keep Sherlock from figuring out what it was before he got it open. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and unsure when John handed the package over.

“John, you didn’t have to- I mean, I know that you don’t have much money-”

“Oh shut up and open it, you prat.” Suitably chastened, Sherlock carefully tore the wrapping and looked at what was contained within.

It had taken John a lot of thought to figure out what Sherlock could possibly like for Christmas. He wasn’t exactly your typical thirteen year old, and John was rubbish at buying gifts most of the time anyhow, as was evident by the fact that he’d given his mother scented candles and picture frames for about six years running. He thought that he’d done pretty well with this, though - a thought that was confirmed by the look of pleased surprise on Sherlock’s face.

“John...” Sherlock breathed, running his hand over the three books as though they were precious tomes and not everyday publications available in most bookstores. The first was something that John had spotted in Hogsmeade the previous month, and had somehow managed to purchase without Sherlock catching him. The title was absurd - _A Study into the Possibility of Reversing the Actual and Metaphysical Effects of Natural Death, With Particular Regard to the Reintegration of Essence and Matter_ \- and it had seemed, to John, to be weird enough to be right up Sherlock’s alley, a correct assumption if the younger boy’s awe was anything to go by. 

The second book was called _Treatise on Potent Poisons, Their Effects, Cures, and Histories,_ by a witch named Alphemina Glenlock. Sherlock was constantly reading every book about poisons that he could get his hands on, and John had more than once had to convince him that actually _making_ any of the potions mentioned therein would be a terrible idea. This book was his attempt at preventing his friend from needing more trips to the hospital wing than strictly necessary.

The last book he’d had to plead and bargain with Harry to pick up for him in a muggle bookstore. It was Stephen Hawking’s _A Brief History of Time,_ and it was the one that John was most excited and also most wary about. Sherlock seemed thoroughly fascinated by muggle science, and was always trying to suss out whether or not it related in any way to magic. The book seemed a little dry for John's taste, but perhaps it would answer some of Sherlock’s more in-depth questions. 

“These are... perfect,” Sherlock said quietly, turning to John with a shy smile. He then lit up and hopped off the bed. “Be right back!” He went scrambling out of the dormitory, and John was left sitting in his bed, watching after the other boy with a bemused expression.

“You an’ your boyfriend done being so loud, then?” Chauncey grumbled from his bed. John tossed the pillow he’d thrown at him back.

“Shut up, Fletcher.” It was all good-natured. None of the Hufflepuffs cared about the unusual friendship, and certainly none of them would care if Sherlock really _were_ John’s boyfriend. Which he wasn’t. The Slytherin in question came hurrying back into the room, carrying two packages, one a small rectangle, the other a domed cylinder. John knew instantly what the second one was, but had no idea what to say.

“These are for you. I picked them myself.” Sherlock looked very pleased with himself. John just sat in his bed, dumbfounded, as the presents were placed in front of him. “Well? What are you waiting for? Hurry up! Open them!” 

With great trepidation, John pulled away the wrapping on the larger package, which had started rattling and emitting little noises of distress. His suspicion was confirmed, and he pulled back the paper to reveal a cage, complete with a little brown owl with white spots. It peered at John quizzically with bright yellow eyes.

"Species _Athene cunicularia hypugaea_. It's a Northern Burrowing Owl! A male." John had no idea what to say.

"Sherlock, this is... He's beautiful, but... This is too much."

“Don’t be an idiot. My family has more money than we know what to do with. And besides, the only reason I’m giving you an owl is so you can write to me over the summer and keep me from dying of boredom.” John had no words. He simply grabbed his friend (who let out an undignified squawk) and pulled him into a crushing hug.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he murmured, “You’re the best friend a bloke could ask for.” 

"You're hurting my neck, John."

"Oh, sorry, right." He stared at the owl again, who had, true to its name, burrowed down under the little nest of cloth rags made up at the bottom of the cage. "I think I'll call him Aengus." Sherlock nodded, looking incredibly pleased with himself, and then picked up the second gift and began prodding John with it.

"This one now!" He demanded. John tore his eyes from the little burrowing owl, and took the second gift from Sherlock. As soon as he'd torn off the paper, he started to laugh.

" _The Beaters' Bible,_ by Brutus Scrimgeour. This is excellent, Sherlock!" He flipped through the forward, and stopped at the first page of text. "Rule one: Take out the Seeker." He started laughing again, and was met with yet another pillow in the face care of Chauncey.


	6. An Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _True to form, Sherlock showed up at the common room around the time that the party started to die down. John was collapsed into an armchair, his head hanging back, and his stomach aching from far too many Every Flavour Beans._
> 
> Following the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor Quidditch match, Sherlock has a proposal for John.

Beaters' Bible or not, Hufflepuff ended up losing its next Quidditch match, against Gryffindor, spectacularly, with a final score of 230 - 40. Regardless, Klein gave his usual “good game, we’re all winners” speech afterwards (to which John rolled his eyes) and the celebration in Hufflepuff’s common room was only slightly less enthusiastic than it would have been had they won. That was what tended to happen when one’s quarters were so close to the kitchens.

True to form, Sherlock showed up at the common room around the time that the party started to die down. John was collapsed into an armchair, his head hanging back, and his stomach aching from far too many Every Flavour Beans. It was the bogey flavoured one that had gotten him in the end.

“I hear it was a rather spirited match,” Sherlock said by way of greeting. John cracked an eye open to stare at his friend.

“Weren’t you watching?”

“Sort of. I was in the stands, if that’s what you mean.” 

John gave a wry chuckle. “Working on some sort of experiment? Effects of sport on adrenaline responses of adolescent wizards, something like that?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, reading a book. Not all of us are easily entertained by a group of brightly coloured balls being thrown about by idiots on sticks.” John knew better than to take that as an insult. Sherlock didn’t ever include _John_ in that group. It was just everyone _else_ who were “idiots on sticks”. 

“Well, this idiot is knackered. I might just sleep through until it’s time for O.W.L.s.” 

“Don’t be absurd, John. The only way that someone could sleep for that long would be by taking a Draught of Living Death.” John groaned.

“I was using hyperbole to illustrate a point, Sherlock, not speaking literally. Did you need something, or are you just here to insult my Quidditch team and point out flaws in my logic?” 

“If I were here to point out flaws in your logic, I’d need at least a fortnight,” Sherlock quipped, a smile evident in his voice, “I was actually wanting to ask if you had plans yet for tomorrow afternoon. Your O.W.L.s are fast approaching, and I think that, with my assistance, you can get the O in Potions necessary to take the course at a N.E.W.T. level.” John covered his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“Ugh. Fine. Whatever. Am I helping you with Defence Against the Dark Arts in return?” Where Sherlock was strong in Potions, John excelled at DADA. Sherlock shuffled awkwardly for a moment.

“I was... rather hoping you might help me produce a successful Patronus charm. I understand you’ve produced a corporeal one as part of an extra credit assignment?” John nodded, his eyes still closed. “Excellent. I’ll meet you in the second Potions room after lunch. Bring your textbook.” With that, Sherlock swept off, and John was left to drag himself up to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a teensy weensy chapter! So I'm posting the next one as well. Up next, Patronus charms!
> 
> Also, my tablet keyboard's autocorrect wanted to change "Hufflepuff-Gryffindor" to "muffle puffy gruff in dog"...


	7. Expecto Patronum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John had been given lessons on Patronus charms after having excelled in all of his other Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum. It had taken several lessons before he'd managed to produce a corporeal Patronus, and he still wasn't consistent, but he knew that it set him up nicely to earn some bonus points on his Owls. He and Sherlock stood at the far end of the Potions classroom, wands out, and John prepared himself to demonstrate the spell._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock exchanges his Potions expertise for John's help in learning the Patronus charm, but not before an uninvited visitor makes an appearance.

John allowed himself a bit of a lie-in the next morning, skipping breakfast in favour of lazing about in bed for an extra hour and a half. He was a teenager, after all. By the time he'd finished showering (Gabriel had given him the password for the Prefect's bathroom, but he was too creeped out by the giggling mermaid paintings to ever use it) it was almost noon. He dressed hurriedly, and then wolfed down his lunch, hardly sparing a moment to say hello to his tablemates before rushing off towards the dungeons. By the time he arrived, Sherlock was already sitting at one of the benches, legs crossed beneath him, with a cauldron out and an impressive array of ingredients laid out over the table.

"Sorry, sorry!" John breathed, huffing as he dropped down onto the seat next to Sherlock, "I slept like the dead, and then one of the staircases was misbehaving, so I had to go the roundabout way to get here." The other boy simply waved his hand dismissively.

"No matter. You're here now. So, for the practical portion of the Potions O.W.L. you have to successfully create a Draught of Peace. Try to remember the proper order for everything..."

Overall, it took less than six minutes before John bungled up the first batch, resulting in a vibrant yellow puff of smoke, and a cloyingly sweet smell that made the boys' teeth ache. Unfortunately, it was exactly at this moment that Professor Snape entered the classroom. John froze, unsure if he was in trouble or not, but Sherlock didn't seem overly concerned.

"Holmes," Snape snapped, "What have I told you about attempting to create new potions without supervision? As intelligent as you may be, the fact remains that you have been warned on multiple occasions with regards to the consequences of unsanctioned-" John tentatively raised his hand, unsure of how to cut a professor off, especially one who terrified him as much as Snape. "What is it Watson?"

John did his best to keep his voice steady when he answered. "Sir, Sherlock isn't trying to make up new potions. He's helping me with my Draught of Peace. The - ah, the smell isn't his fault, sir. It's mine. I was too heavy-handed with the porcupine quills, and... well..." He trailed off. Snape looked unimpressed, but John had come to believe that to be the man's default expression.

"Why are you helping him, Holmes?" 

Sherlock didn't seem at all cowed by the head of his house staring him down. "John is my friend. I am assisting him with studying in the hopes that he will receive an O on his Potions O.W.L. and be eligible for the course next year. In return, he is going to assist me in the successful creation of a Patronus Charm." If Snape was surprised by this pronouncement, he didn't show it.

"You are aware that you should request permission from a teacher before using one of the classrooms? In addition, I seem to recall the cupboard containing syrup of hellebore being locked."

"Rather ineffectively, evidently," Sherlock drawled. John tried very hard not to gape at his friend. What was he doing? They were going to get into so much trouble! Snape, however, looked nonplussed.

"Evidently. Well, if you are intent on continuing, perhaps I should remain and supervise? It wouldn't do for something to go wrong and one of you to end up in the hospital wing." John felt vaguely ill. Attempting to create the difficult potion successfully was stressful enough. With Snape watching, it was bound to be an abysmal failure. Sherlock just smirked, though, and turned his attention back to John.

"I find it helpful to have the powdered quills measured into several small, equal doses, so that they can be added incrementally until the desired colour is achieved. Shall we try again?" John shifted his gaze from his friend to the professor and then back, before steeling himself with a deep breath, and nodded.

Surprisingly, John found himself relaxing into a rhythm with Sherlock, and while he certainly didn't _forget_ that Snape was sitting in the same room, watching them, he was able to reduce his panic to a mild niggling in the back of his mind, instead of the usual deafening roar the professor inspired. At one point, when John almost added the powdered unicorn horn before the necessary second round of porcupine quills, and Sherlock smacked him soundly on the back of his head, he could have sworn that the surly professor almost cracked a smile. 

John's second attempt at the potion was looking successful when both boys leaned back to allow it to simmer for the necessary seven minutes. John scrubbed his hands over his face, and Sherlock stared intently into the cauldron. From prior experience, John knew that the waiting parts of potion-making were always the hardest for the easily bored boy. He would usually have passed the time with talk, but was far too intimidated by Snape's presence this time around. Finally, after an eternity, the cauldron emitted a silver vapour, and Snape strode forward. He peered at the turquoise liquid, and then turned to John.

"Adequate," he pronounced, and John felt his shoulders sag with relief, "Though you will not have Mr. Holmes's assistance during the actual examination." John was still far too pleased with himself to be insulted. Snape turned to Sherlock next. "It seems you may not be alone in Potions next year. Ten points to Slytherin for tutoring Watson. Best of luck with the Patronus lesson." With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

"Wait, what?" John asked, turning to pin his friend with a look of confusion, "What does he mean?" Sherlock smirked.

"Well, as you know, I am already in fourth year Potions classes this year, and am still finding the subject matter too simple. I am one of Professor Snape's favourite students, though he would likely deny it vehemently if questioned, and he has given me special permission to sit the Potions O.W.L. without taking the prerequisite classes, and then I'll be in the sixth year class next year." John beamed at his friend.

"That's fantastic, Sherlock! If I make it into the class, you can help me make sure I don't fail too miserably!" He laughed at the look of utter derision this earned him.

"Really, John. You're quite capable of performing well in Potions. You simply need to focus and apply yourself. Now, I want to learn a Patronus charm." With that, the two boys switched roles, from tutor to student and vice versa.

John had been given lessons on Patronus charms after having excelled in all of his other Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum. It had taken several lessons before he'd managed to produce a corporeal Patronus, and he still wasn't consistent, but he knew that it set him up nicely to earn some bonus points on his Owls. He and Sherlock stood at the far end of the Potions classroom, wands out, and John prepared himself to demonstrate the spell.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " He shouted, pulling as hard as he could on the memory of the first Quidditch game he'd ever played in and won. A silver light burst from the tip of his wand, and coalesced into the figure of a smallish wolf. He beamed at Sherlock, who was examining the Patronus intently.

" _Canis lupus pallipes,_ " Sherlock offered, "the Indian wolf. A very appropriate Patronus for you, John." John shrugged, unsure of how one was expected to respond to remarks about the nature of one's Patronus. 

“I'm not even going to bother asking why you have the Latin names for all these animals memorised.”

"Show me how," Sherlock demanded, ignoring John's comment. The older boy dismissed the wolf with another wave of his wand, and then turned back to his friend.

"Well, the actual charm is the easy part. The tricky bit is the feeling and power _behind_ the Patronus. It's made up of, like... happiness, and good feelings." Sherlock snorted, but John chose to ignore him. "So, when you cast the spell, you have to think of a really happy memory, and then pour that into the casting." He spent a few moments showing Sherlock the appropriate wand movements, and then stepped aside. "Got your happy memory?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, yes. Let me concentrate!" John smirked, but held his hands up in a "whenever you're ready" gesture. " _Expecto Patronum!_ " Sherlock incanted. A faint sort of silver mist spluttered out of his wand, quickly dissipating into the chilly dungeon air. 

"That was really good!" John said encouragingly. Sherlock huffed, pouting.

"Don't patronise me. That was rubbish."

"It wasn't. That anything happened at all is an excellent first step! Besides, I though _patronusing_ you was the whole point?" Sherlock gave him a blank look. "You know, patronise, Patronus..."

"Yes, I realise that you were attempting a terrible pun. I just didn't want to encourage it." John chuckled, and the lesson continued.

It took a total of three castings with no results, and five with nothing more than a thin silvery mist, before Sherlock was in full-on frustration mode, pacing back and forth, grumbling angrily.

"I don't _understand!_ " He growled, "I'm doing it all right, I know I am! Why isn't it working?" John attempted to calm his distressed friend.

"It's a difficult spell, Sherlock. Even some _experienced_ witches and wizards find it difficult to-"

"No! Stop that! Stop trying to make me _feel_ better, and tell me what I'm doing _wrong!_ "

John wasn't really sure, to be honest, but he figured that, since it obviously wasn't the execution of the spell that was the problem, it must be the more esoteric component. "What's your happy thought?"

Sherlock couldn't have looked less impressed if he tried. "My 'happy thought'?"

"The thought you're using to fuel the Patronus, obviously."

"Watching Mycroft open a birthday present that contained three very angry pixies." 

John couldn't help but giggle. He'd never met Mycroft Holmes, but from Sherlock's descriptions he sounded like a right arse. "Well, it's an _amusing_ thought, that's for sure, but I don't know if it's really _happy,_ you know?" The expression on Sherlock's face conveyed that no, obviously, he didn't know. "It has to be something that makes you feel so incredibly happy, like you could burst, or... jump up and down and run around like a madman."

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, and then attempted another Patronus. This time, while not a fully corporeal result, there was a dense silver smoke that hung around for a solid thirty seconds before dissipating. 

"That was loads better!" John exclaimed, "Whatever your happy thought was that time, you're definitely heading down the right path. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm knackered, and could really used some dinner. You coming?" Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I'm going to stay here and continue practising. I'm going to get this right." John shrugged.

"Suit yourself. Just don't go trying to invent any new poisons while you're down here. Snape'd probably kill me if you end up blowing something up because I left you unsupervised." The only response that he received was a dismissive hand wave. John shook his head, smiling, and went off towards the Great Hall, leaving Sherlock repeatedly yelling _"Expecto Patronum"_ behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that everyone thinks that my choice for John's Patronus is appropriate. For anyone who's curious, Indian Wolves are a Grey Wolf subspecies found in, among other places, Afghanistan. 
> 
> As for Sherlock's Patronus, well, that'll have to wait.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Your kudos and comments make my day!


	8. Year's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As the Potions examination approached on Monday, John witnessed three of his classmates collapse into nervous wrecks, needing to be given doses of Calming Draught._
> 
>  
> 
> John takes his O.W.L.s, and the school year comes to a close.

June came surprisingly quickly, and John found his O.W.L.s had rushed up to meet him with alarming speed. Charms went fairly well, along with Transfiguration. He knew that he had aced Herbology, and the Patronus that he'd produced during his Defence Against the Dark Arts examination had earned him an appraising look from the examiner. He was very glad that he hadn't taken Study of Ancient Runes, as it meant he had the Friday off to try and recover, and hopefully catch up on his sleep before the next round. Sherlock, however, seemed to have other ideas. He'd shown up bright and early, and had dragged John out of bed for another round of studying.

"Come _on_ John!" The younger boy cajoled, "You need an O on your Potions Owl! Professor Snape won't accept an A or E, and Potions is _important!_ Didn't you tell Professor Sprout that you were thinking of being a Healer or an Auror? You need a Potions N.E.W.T. for both of those! Now, again, the ingredients for Polyjuice!" John groaned, and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to remember. 

"Lacewing flies, leeches, umm... Boomslang skin..."

This continued throughout the entire weekend, with John's only breaks being filled with studying for Care of Magical Creatures, History of Magic, and Astronomy. He wasn't terribly concerned about Muggle Studies, being Muggleborn. He'd really only taken the course at all because a) it was an easy grade and b) it was usually hilarious. As long as the _examiners_ knew the correct answers to the questions, he'd be fine. The incident from the previous year, where Professor Quirrell had thought that electricity was a liquid, had almost cost him his perfect grade, until a quick word with the professor and the aid of one of Harry's physics textbooks had straightened things out.

As the Potions examination approached on Monday, John witnessed three of his classmates collapse into nervous wrecks, needing to be given doses of Calming Draught. During the written portion of the exam, John managed to keep his wits, and Sherlock looked so calm as to almost be disturbing, but two other students - a Gryffindor girl who appeared not to have slept for several days and a Ravenclaw boy who had started crying the moment they'd turned over their papers - had to be escorted to the hospital wing after they both vomited from nerves, with their exams rescheduled for later in the week. 

The written section was followed by the practical examination, with only a break for lunch in between. The students were divided into groups of ten, each group assigned a classroom, and each classroom assigned an examiner. John was not in Sherlock's group, Watson being so far from Holmes alphabetically, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway, as students were positioned far apart, and a silencing spell was placed over the room so as to prevent cheating. As predicted, the potion they were told to create was a Draught of Peace, and John was very glad to have practiced with Sherlock. While four of the other students in John's exam room quickly bungled things up - leading to two unpleasant smells, one cauldron full of grey sludge, and one small explosion - John actually found himself remembering things with ease, and before he knew it he had a bubbling cauldron filled with a pleasantly coloured turquoise liquid, emitting a familiar vapour. Had he not been indoors, and under the effects of the silencing spell, he would have crowed with success and shot fireworks into the air. As it was, he calmly got up, left the classroom, found Sherlock, and enveloped him in a crushing hug.

The rest of his exams flew by. He was fairly confident that he'd done abysmally in History of Magic, as he was absolute pants at remembering dates, but when the last exam ended and he headed towards the Great Hall for a well earned snack, he was smiling. Predictably, Sherlock was waiting for him.

"You don't think you've done well on the History of Magic examination, and you found the questions for Muggle Studies to be mildly insulting at times, yet you're smiling," Sherlock said by way of greeting, "why?" 

John grinned. "Because I'm _done,_ Sherlock! It's summer holidays now!" He grabbed a seat next to his friend. "Aren't you excited to have a bit of a break?" The Slytherin boy looked anything _but_ excited. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock grumbled, in a manner that clearly meant "something".

"Come on, what is it?" John prodded. Sherlock crossed his arms defensively.

"I don't want to go home. Home is dull, and boring, and tedious."

"Those words all mean the same thing, Sherlock." This earned him an eye-roll.

"Exactly. There aren't enough synonyms in the English language to explain how incredibly _hateful_ this summer is going to be. My brain is going to end up leaking out my ears before September comes." He flopped forward dramatically, landing his head on the table with a thud. John knew that Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he was pretty sure that his friend was lonely when he went home. It didn't sound like he had many people to talk with at the Holmes Estate.

"Well, tell you what," John said, "you feel your brain starting to liquefy, write me a letter. And I'll write to you! Aengus'll probably hate being stuck inside for two months anyway. It would be good for him to have something to deliver." The little burrowing owl had taken quite a shining to John, but seemed shy around other people. Maybe a bit of mail carrying would help with that.

"You mean that?" Sherlock asked warily, "You'd really write to me?" 

John looked puzzled. "Of course I will. You're my best friend. Why wouldn't I write to you?" 

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a little smile. "Hmm. Why, indeed?"

~x~

There were lots of goodbyes aboard the Hogwarts Express. John shared a compartment with Gabriel, who wouldn't shut up about all the camping he was going to do with his brothers; Cedric, who was pretty good to talk with, as far as second-years went; and Sherlock, who had descended into a truly spectacular sulk, and refused to speak through most of the train ride. John gave up trying to drag more than monosyllabic grunts out of him after being ignored for the third time, and passed most of the journey talking about Quidditch with his fellow Hufflepuffs.

Unsurprisingly, there was no one waiting for John at platform nine and three-quarters. His mum was working, his dad had lost his licence several months previous, and Harry was... Harry. John turned to find Sherlock, for one last goodbye before leaving, and saw him several cars down, scowling at a portly young wizard who must have been Mycroft, who was doing his best to draw his brother into conversation. Catching the younger boy's eye, John waved, mouthing "write!" and received a sad little smile and wave in return, and then he was off, back through the platform barrier, into London, and back to his family home. He wouldn't see Sherlock again until September, but, though neither boy knew it yet, things were bound to be interesting, as it would be that September that Harry Potter would start at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the boys' first year of friendship! I've written a little epilogue in the form of their letters back and forth over the summer, which will be posted either later today or some time tomorrow.


	9. Epilogue: Letters of the First Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summer correspondence between John and Sherlock.

July 10th, 1991

Dear Sherlock,

I hope that Aengus finds you okay! I guess owls can find anyone, anywhere, but I'd feel a lot better if I were writing an address on this, sticking a stamp to it, and dropping it in the post. I guess that's just my muggle showing, eh? Anyway, it’s probably a good thing he’ll be gone for a while. I think he scared my mum when she found him in an old rabbit hole in the back garden.

Harry is her usual pleasant self. She’s taken to telling her friends that I’m off at a special school for developmentally delayed teenagers, and that it’s working wonders as I no longer have to wear a bib to catch my drool. If it wouldn’t end with me in serious trouble, I’d put the curse of the bogeys on her. She’s off to uni in September, where she’ll hopefully meet some new friends and learn how to stop being such an awful person.

Anyway, nothing much exciting happening here yet. How’s home? Was that your brother who picked you up at the train? What are you doing for fun this summer? Try not to blow anything up or violate the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery!

Write back!

John

*

July 17th, 1991

John,

Aengus is a trained owl. He is perfectly capable of finding the Holmes manor, which is not only fairly well-known amongst wizards, but disgustingly large, and could probably be seen from space. Owls are far more accurate and reliable than the muggle postal system.

Yes, that was Mycroft who picked me up from the train. He’s trying to convince me to head towards the Ministry of Magic for my career track. I was pleased to note that he’s put on weight, though he appears to have since taken on some sort of diet. It’s not working, as is evidenced by his repeated sneaking to the kitchens in the middle of the night, in order to consume vast quantities of baked goods. I have not yet decided how best to exploit this to my advantage, but the summer’s only just started. Your sister and Mycroft should meet - inflict themselves on each other instead of either of us.

Home is boring. And dreadful. Dreadfully boring.

I’ve actually decided to run a study on the comparative effects between muggle and magical poisons. (I can already hear your objections. Don’t worry, non-sentient test subjects only.) I am especially interested to see which muggle poisons can be counteracted by which magical antidotes, and vice versa.

How about you? Aside from unpleasant siblings, how is your summer? Have you been playing football? I would be fascinated to see the results of a muggle football match played with a bludger. I can send you one if you promise to take extensive notes.

Sincerely,

SH

*

July 25th, 1991

Sherlock!

I was so glad to get your letter! Aengus was also very pleased with himself, and is now sleeping in the pocket of my hoodie. Even Harry had to (grudgingly) admit that he’s sweet.

You should be nicer to your brother. He sounds like he’s only trying to look out for you. Then again, people are always telling me I should try harder to get along with Harry, and I usually want to tell them to get stuffed, so please feel free to say the same to me.

Some of the boys on my street have been getting together for a bit of football, yes. I’m not very good (too short - still waiting for my growth spurt!) but it’s fun anyway. I don’t think a bludger would be a good idea. Too much risk of violating the statute of secrecy, not to mention the potential for broken noses etc.

Weirdest thing happened this morning! I saw no less than _six_ owls fly overhead! They were all going the same way, looks like. Maybe a family of sextuplets are heading to Hogwarts next year?

Anyhow, I’ve got to go. I have a date! Her name’s Sarah, she went to muggle school with me. We’ve already gone out twice this summer. I’ll let you know how it goes next time I write.

John

*

~~Jul 30th, 1991~~

~~John,~~

~~I don’t want to hear about your dates~~

~~I don’t think you should date anyone~~

~~It made me feel vaguely nauseous when I read that you~~

*

Aug 1st, 1991

John!

Did you hear? There was a break-in at Gringott’s today! They keep going on and on about how it’s impenetrable, but that’s clearly not the case!

I keep trying to convince Mycroft to take me to Diagon Alley. I want to see what’s happened for myself. There is obviously a very powerful, very clever person behind this!

I’ll keep you posted with anything I find.

SH

*

Aug 7th, 1991

Sherlock,

I don’t get any wizarding news while I’m at home, so I had no idea about the break-in! You shouldn’t go poking about at crime scenes, though. There are people trained to do that as their jobs; you might get in trouble.

Dating Sarah’s going well, if you were wondering. I’ve had my first kiss now (and a few more besides!) I’m going to ask her to be my girlfriend, I think. Wish me luck!

Let me know when you’ll be at Diagon Alley! Maybe I’ll go at the same time and we can pick up our stuff for next year together.

Stay out of trouble!

John

*

Aug 12th, 1991

John,

Don’t worry about me getting into trouble “poking about” in crime scenes. Mycroft wouldn’t let me go, and it’s no use asking mummy for anything. She spends most of her time lying in bed.

I’ll be at Diagon Alley on the 26th. It would be good to see you. Let me know, and maybe we can meet at Fortescue’s. We haven’t any ice cream here. Mycroft is inflicting his diet upon the rest of us, and so there is nothing sweet or fattening or interesting to eat anywhere in the house.

~~Please stop telling me about~~

~~Sarah sounds dull~~

Good luck with Sarah.

SH

*

Aug 17th, 1991

Sherlock,

I’ll see you at 2 PM at Fortescue’s on the 26th!

I have a girlfriend now!

Very excited to see you again, and to head back to Hogwarts,

John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the first year! I'm sorry for angst. It'll get better, I promise! I'll start posting Year 2 once it's a little further along. I hope everyone's enjoyed! Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments. They mean so much!


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